


The Healing Place

by ThePash



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:12:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9382004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePash/pseuds/ThePash
Summary: That episode, TFP, was indeed 'vivisection'. It was also cathartic for me, in a way. There will be two chapters. I shall try to post the next one tomorrow.





	1. Chapter 1

The Healing Place  
Chapter One  
Molly Hooper stared incredulously at her phone; eviscerated by the dull, relentless, disconnected tone. He hung up? After that? After putting her through…that; he fucking hangs up? The deliberate cruelty of it overwhelmed her and she sank to the floor of her kitchen, and then, scrambling across it, she managed to stand up quickly on shaky legs before emptying her stomach in her kitchen sink. When she was done, she turned and made her way back to the phone, where she had placed it on the counter. 

Her heart was racing and the pain in it astonished her. How could it be this physical? This fucking agonising? She’d thought she’d felt heartbreak before; over Sherlock Fucking Holmes, before, but never, ever, to this degree. She turned the phone to look at it, as if it could provide her with an answer, but still the disconnected tone mocked her. A bitter reminder of how Sherlock had just made a mockery of her too. She raised her hand and smashed the phone on the kitchen counter, over and over, until it was in smithereens all over it and kitchen floor. Minutes later she was in her shower, hot as she could stand it, trying to stop shaking. Trying to just stop feeling the pain of it. She stood there until the water ran cold, until she realised she was hugging herself, and rocking forwards and backwards.

‘Deep breaths, that’s it Molly, deep breaths, you’re ok’. 

She repeated it as she dried herself; wrapped herself in her towel; walked into her bedroom and just stood there for long minutes. ‘Deep breaths’.  
Then she felt the rage; overwhelming; breath-taking, but she welcomed it. Oh, how she welcomed it, because it spurred her to action. She stalked to her wardrobe and pulling out her suitcase, she stuffed it with clothes, as best she could manage, dressed herself, pulled on her boots and coat and then, grabbing her purse, spare credit card and passport, she called a taxi on her landline. Two hours later, after she had withdrawn as much cash as was permitted on both her cards, she approached the Aer Lingus desk in Heathrow and bought a ticket on the next flight to Dublin, paying cash. She knew she couldn’t thwart the Holmes brothers for too long; if they even deigned to look for her that is; but it was fight or flight and right now she had no energy to fight. 

She sat rigidly in departures, right at her gate, staring fixedly ahead and trying to rebuff the friendly overtures of the Irish woman sitting next to her, who was only trying to pass the time. Then the woman looked at her properly. 

“Are you all right love?” 

She swallowed down the pain and turned to look at the woman, twisted her lips in an attempt at a smile and nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The woman saw though, and her brows furrowed in concern. 

“Did you get bad news love?”  
she persisted. Soft, kind, lilting voice, that began to break through the ice, but no, not yet, not here…don’t be kind because it will break me and I don’t want to break in public; where there are cameras everywhere, where he will see. Because he knows, he knows what he’s done to me but he will not see me break. I refuse to let him see me break.’

She looked at the Irishwoman; eyes flooded with pain she couldn’t hide. 

“Let’s just say I got a ‘wake up’ call.” 

The woman grimaced in sympathy. 

“Jesus love, I’m sorry. Sometimes they’re the very worst kind.” 

The woman stood up and patted her shoulder. Minutes later she returned with two paper cups, holding one to Molly. 

“Tea. Warm yourself up. There’s milk and sugar in there, but you look like you’re in shock, so drink it up, ok?” 

Molly nodded her head again and took the paper cup from her. 

“Thank you.” 

Her voice was trembling, broken and whispered like her last words to Sherlock. (“Because…because it’s true..it’s…it’s true Sherlock. It’s always..been… true…”)

So, she didn’t want to use her voice anymore, something the Irishwoman seemed to understand because she sat down silently beside her until their flight was called. She sat beside her on the short flight and protected her from further conversation until they disembarked in Dublin. Then she just patted her on the back as they approached the exit into the arrivals hall. 

“It will be all right love. You’ll sort it out. Wait and see, I’m right you know.” 

One more kind smile and her protector was gone; disappearing through the exit. Molly walked in a daze to the car rentals area and hired a car, but they wouldn’t let her use cash. She knew she’d left another trace with her card, and her bloody passport, and Mycroft would know, but she kept moving anyway, driving out of Dublin now and heading west, because she remembered the West of Ireland. She remembered it’s rugged, almost visceral beauty, untamed and unrelenting. She remembered how a long time ago when her mother had died, they'd brought her back here, they’d brought her home. She remembered how the land had seeped into her blood and soothed her soul. A healing place. So she drove west. 

Hours later and pitch black, because there were no street lights on the Dingle Peninsula, once you got out of the town, she found the farmhouse. She parked her car and knocked on the door. An elderly man opened it and looked at her in confusion. Summoning her last ounce of energy, she said,

“I’m Molly. My mother was from here. She was Margaret Ferriter. Her father was Seán Ferriter?” 

The old man looked at her, eyes widening at her familial features. He read all of it in her face, all of her pain and turmoil. Her proud, desperate face. 

“Step in for a minute Molly Hooper. You’re letting the heat out.” 

She did and he smiled at her. He turned into back into the hall and unhooked a set of keys from a hook over the door

“You’ll be wanting to stay in the cottage then?” 

She swallowed back a sob and nodded. Tears filling her eyes. The man exhaled in sympathy. 

“It’s alright now Molly. I’m Connor. I’m your cousin. You’re home now, girl.” 

She shuddered and nodded at him but held on, because she couldn’t break yet. Not in front of this man. Not in front of anyone. He took his car keys. 

“Follow behind me Molly, you mightn’t find it in the dark.”

She did as he instructed and ten minutes later he pulled up outside the cottage; the one she remembered, and it looked the same even in the dark, and she released a breath. Her cousin opened the door and let her in. He turned on the lights and the heating, and as he was leaving he said kindly,

“I’ll get my son to leave some provisions outside the door for you. Come up to us sometime tomorrow or the next day. Ok?”

One more deep shuddering breath. “OK”

She closed the front door behind her and waited until the car pulled away from the house before she leaned against it and slid down on the floor and then she released it. She let the tears pour down her face, the pain forcing its way out because she couldn’t hold onto it any longer. Later, lying in bed and tired beyond belief, she finally let her mind go over it again and something flickered. Something that wasn’t quite right. 

“Say it anyway!” Sherlock. Mean and determined. 

“You say it. Go on. You say it first.” If he wanted his pound of flesh, she was bloody well having hers. 

“What?” Sherlock unsure now.

“Say it!” she almost demanding it, followed by,

“Say it like you mean it?” a desperate appeal, because it might be the only time he ever said it to her. A pause… seconds only, but felt interminable, then Sherlock…

“I..I, I love you” 

but it sounded almost like a question. More long seconds and her heart was racing and so full of pain as she gripped the phone in silence. Then he said it again. 

“I love you.” 

Tender and certain, perfect this time and she hugged it into her because she needed so badly to finally fucking hear it. She was unable to speak; unable to respond and then his voice back again, more anxious now,  
“Molly?” 

and still she could say nothing. Then he begged. Sherlock. Begged. 

“Molly please!!” 

and a break in his voice, the anxiety so tangible that in recollecting it she realised it couldn’t be false, and then in that dark night in the cottage from long ago she knew why she’d done what he’d asked and whispered it finally, after so many years, she'd whispered it to him.

“I love you.” 

Because he’d meant it. Whatever the fuck else was going on, he’d meant it. She was the one who could see him. He’d admitted it himself that other bleak night years ago. He. Meant. It.  
The last thing she remembered before sleep overtook her was the sharp deep inhalation of pure relief from Sherlock before the phone went dead. Molly sighed deeply and then fell asleep.


	2. The Healing Place

The Healing Place  
Chapter Two  
Sherlock was very quiet and subdued on the way back to London in the car. John sat beside him, deep in his own thoughts for a long while before he broke the silence.  
“She’ll forgive you.” 

Sherlock shook his head as he stared out of the window into the inky blackness of the night. He sighed. 

“Will she John? Or have I gone too far this time? Have I pushed her away for good?” 

He paused and looked at his friend before continuing. 

“She’s been hurt and angry with me for a while now, hates the drugs, and well, I’ve not been any kind of friend to her lately, and now this?” 

John smiled sympathetically.

“She’s Molly, Sherlock. Of course she’ll forgive you. When she loves, she loves with her whole heart. She can’t be any other way, and she certainly loves you.” 

John shook his head with a rueful laugh.

“What?” asked Sherlock, exasperated. 

“Well. I didn’t see this one coming at all. Your sister is definitely the smartest one.”

“What do you mean?” Cautious, because he knew what was coming.

“Well,” said John, “for all your flirting texts, it wasn’t Irene Adler’s coffin, was it? Euros saw what nobody else did; not me, not Mycroft, not even you.”

“Nonsense John, you’ve known about Molly’s feelings towards me. You must have.”

“Yes mate,” John responded, “but I never knew about yours.” 

Sherlock laughed ruefully. 

“It would appear that neither did I,” he paused in contemplation, “that said, when you told me how Mary made you want to be a better man, and to go find that with ‘The Woman’, Adler wasn’t the one who sprang to mind. It was Molly’s big brown eyes I saw, twinkling at me when I pleased her or flashing in anger or hurt when I let her down. I have been considering your words John and, well, it keeps coming back to her, to Molly, but we were in the thick of this case, and grieving Mary, and I wasn’t quite sure, but seeing that coffin… Christ John, I could see her in it and I couldn’t bear it for a second. The pain...” 

He grimaced at his own words but John shook his head.

“Its fine Sherlock. I get it and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, certainly not my best friend.” 

Nothing else was said until the car pulled up outside John’s house, just as dawn was breaking over London skies. John opened the door and turned to Sherlock. 

“Go get your girl, mate.”

Sherlock knew it was too early to disturb Molly so he directed the car back to Baker Street and showered and changed. He was anxious to get to her, but when he got to her flat at 08.00 and rang the bell, she didn’t answer. He picked her lock and let himself in and knew immediately that she’d gone. His heart sank as he took in the smashed phone in the kitchen. He saw everything that had happened after the call had been disconnected. Saw she’d been physically sick; saw her pain vented on her phone, and sweeping through the flat into her bedroom, saw the evidence of her frantic packing. She’d left almost immediately and he couldn’t use her phone to trace her. He went through her desk drawer and saw her passport was gone too. He sank down on her bed and dropped his head in his hands in despair. He ruffled his hair in frustration and then and began to tidy up her flat. He didn’t want her to come home to this. Then he called Mycroft. 

“She’s gone Mycroft, and she’s taken her passport. Help me find her?” 

Mycroft sighed in sympathy. 

“We’ll find her Sherlock. Think though; where would she go?” 

“Somewhere to find comfort, to lick her wounds. Somewhere she found comfort in the past. Not her father’s people; they were never around, never supportive. I suspect they rejected his choice of wife.”

“Well, with a name like Molly perhaps you already know where to find her Sherlock?”

“I’m on my way to Heathrow. Find out where her Mother’s people are from and where they are now. Please Mycroft?”

“I’ll have tickets waiting for you. I’ll sort a car for you in Dublin, but Sherlock…” 

“What?”

“Be sure of what you want before you find her. Do not make it worse.”

Sherlock sighed in irritation. 

“Just help me find her Mycroft.”

As his plane taxied to a stop in Dublin Airport he received a text from his brother.

‘Ferriter’s Cove, Dingle Peninsula. I suspect she’s in the cottage on the beach. Its owned by her cousin. Good luck.” 

He was on the road within a half an hour. 

Molly woke early, feeling hungry. She shrugged on some leisure clothes and found the food parcel as promised. It was a cold and frosty morning but the sky was clear and she gasped in pleasure at the views from the cottage. Green craggy cliffs, even in Winter, sweeping down to a long golden beach. She rustled up rashers and eggs and groaned at the wholemeal bread and the succulent and unique taste of Irish butter. She reviewed again the events of the day before and began to regret the destruction of her phone. She was out of contact with everyone now. She decided to go into the town and buy a temporary one later. The beach beckoned her now though and, pulling on her boots and coat, she headed out on a long and revitalising walk. 

Molly walked for hours and decided that she was going to stay in this place for a little while and just rest. It was beautiful and she could breathe here. Things had been very difficult for many months, and Sherlock was not wrong, even though he was being factitious. She was stressed. She’d spent a long time worrying about him and his bloody reckless behaviour, about John and Rosie, and she was grieving for Mary. She was long overdue a break and she could and would just stop and re-charge her batteries. She would re-connect with her family here. The family that took her in without questions. That decided, she took the back walk into the town and had a coffee and scone before buying a replacement phone. 

She was only back in the cottage for ten minutes when she heard a car sweep into the gravel driveway. Expecting it to be her cousin she opened the door and froze. Sherlock stood on the doorstep, dark and magnificent as ever, and there went her bloody fickle heart. She felt the blood rushing to her face. He said nothing but his eyes swept over her face, before he gave her a tentative and gentle smile. “Hello Molly,” uttered so softly that she felt her heart crack.

“Leave me alone,” pleading now as she tried to close the door.

He shot his hand out to block it.

“Please Molly, give me a few minutes, a chance to explain. You know I would never deliberately hurt you. You know that.”

“How do I know that when you’ve done it before?”

“Not deliberately Molly. Never like that…Please?” 

She stood back and went into the room, allowing him to follow her. He exhaled in relief and closed the door behind him. They stood, saying nothing as he shook off his coat and jacket and she studied his face as he continued to stare at her. He approached her and she saw how tired he was, the strain on his face and she softened. 

“Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, please..” 

She turned to go to the kitchen counter but he caught her hand, ran his thumb over her knuckles; stalled her. She turned back to face him. He was standing so close and her heart hammered even faster, and she couldn’t break away from the intensity of his gaze. He lifted his hands and stroked her face gently, tracing over her eyebrows, caressing her cheekbones with his thumbs and still locking his beautiful eyes to hers. He ran a thumb across her bottom lip and then he was kissing her forehead, moving his lips across it, tracing the same path his fingers had just travelled; stopping at the corner of her mouth. Molly grabbed his biceps to stop from falling and he pulled her tightly into him and nuzzled into her neck, muttering her name like a mantra.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and ran her fingers through his hair before she pulled his head back roughly to look in his eyes. 

“You meant it…, the second time, didn’t you?” 

Sherlock kissed her then, kissed her mouth until she was breathless. 

“Yes, God Molly, yes I meant it. I can explain it, all of it, I’m so sorry for putting you through that..”

Molly tugged his head back down to meet her, eyes brimming with tears, happy ones now, and kissed him and then she was nuzzling him too, soft kisses all over his beautiful face. 

“Explain later!” she decided, because her pulse was racing and she wanted him, needed him as badly as he appeared to need her. He chuckled throatily and swept her up high to meet him as she wrapped her legs around his waist. He clasped her to him tightly for a long minute and then carried her into the bedroom. 

“Show me Sherlock,” she whispered as he undressed first her and then himself, and so he did, beautifully and expertly, like everything else he did. He worshipped her with his body, and his whispered words, until they both were sated. She held him to her breast as he slept; clasping him to her where he belonged. Later, as they ate at her table, he told her all of it. The story of his life. 

For days they played and loved, talked and laughed, but she knew he had to leave; to see to his family and fix up his home, and he knew she had to stay for a little while longer, without her needing to explain why, so he kissed her again before he left and whispered, “say it Molly.”

“I love you, I love you Sherlock Holmes,” and she watched as his car pulled away. Weeks later he got a text and smiled as he read it.

‘I’m coming home today. MH’ 

Sherlocks heart leapt a little and he typed his reply…

‘You know where to find me. SH’


End file.
